


Pleasures of the Flesh

by chicanerymakesmehappy



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: 1800s era, Adultery, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism Play, Cunnilingus, Except Marilyn still casually says fuck a fair bit, Excessive use of the nickname little girl, F/M, Masochism and Sadism, Old Fashioned Language, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pretty shit, Probably very OOC, Romance, Smut, Sort Of, Vampire Manson, i don’t know why but there is actually love and romantic shit in there what is wrong with me, i was inspired by dracula... i don't know, open wounds, overly romantic descriptive prose, playing with open wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicanerymakesmehappy/pseuds/chicanerymakesmehappy
Summary: A late night tryst with your inhuman lover.(Or: a very gratuitous and probably pretty unoriginal vampire manson smut fic, with a major extreme blood kink.)
Relationships: Marilyn Manson/Original Female Character(s), Marilyn Manson/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	Pleasures of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Look...
> 
> I never said I was good at writing. Just thought "fuck it," and eventually decided to go ahead and post this awful monstrosity. Originally posted on tumblr, but I switched it over here as soon as my account was active because I prefer posting writing on a platform like this.
> 
> This is one of many Manson smut fantasies I have shamelessly written, often whilst somewhat drunk, and I am only daring to post anything now because I know how appalling my writing is.

It is foggy outside, the sky thick with a haze which all but obscures the gibbous curve of the moon. But chunks of light still find their way through, peppering the street below as it sits in the kind of eerie silence that only exists in these small, dead hours.

Your grandfather’s pocket watch, gifted to you in your youth, sits on the dresser. You snap it open one last time, just to be sure; three thirty in the morning, and thus just three minutes left to wait out until his arrival. He promised he would be here today; you know he will not keep you waiting.

The tiny heartbeat of the watch seems louder, heavier against a soundless backdrop. It ticks relentlessly, agitation building with every sound until you stuff it in your bureau drawer, buried beneath a stack of handkerchiefs, to silence its metallic pulse.

It is your own heartbeat that accompanies you now, thick beats that pound against your rib cage as you push away the eiderdown. It is chilly tonight, drafts sweeping over your skin and raising every follicle. The floorboards may as well be planks of ice against your bare feet as you cross the room, small steps so as not to risk a floorboard creaking too loudly and alerting someone else. No one can be awake, or he may be discouraged and refrain from visiting.

The window once squeaked when you opened it, a shrill noise in protest as the ancient hinges were forced out of place. But as the visits grew more frequent, as you yourself grew from feeling guilt to anticipating every time with the glee of an eager child, you had the hinges oiled- so now, the windows open soundlessly into the night, welcoming what may climb through.

Your nightgown bears little protection, nothing but a thin satin shift, and you tremble as the frostbitten night air rushes into your room.Cold before, the temperature plummets even further and the fog from outside begins to swirl through slowly, tendrils of vapour lapping around your feet. This is not a natural occurrence; you know by now that the fog arrives shortly before he does, and despite the arctic temperatures inside, a flush of heat travels through your body with this knowledge.

By the time the fog has spread, blanketed the floorboards entirely and stretched into every darkened corner of the room, he is here.  
Each time you see him, his beauty pierces through everything inside you like a sharpened poker, rendering your breath short and your words tentative. Though you memorised his visage within seconds of seeing it for the first time- every curve, every angle, every shadow- you never grow accustomed to it. He is unholy, horrific, grotesque and utterly _breathtaking_. _  
__  
_Perched on your windowsill now, deftly, for he cannot enter unless he is invited. The faint glow of the moon illuminates his skin, paler than milk and smooth as polished glass. His hair is a spill of black silk down the sides of his elongated jaw, his lips are a dark stain. But it is his eyes that forever hold the power to send your legs buckling, to twist the rhythm of your heartbeat in his hands.  
You are caught, impaled in their gaze. _This is what they do_ , people had warned you, in another life long before him. _They manipulate you. Their eyes shine like the devil, and they trap you under their spell._  
  
But you do not regret throwing such warnings to the wayside. If you are going to Hell, if you truly have sold your soul, it has been worth it for every touch of his, every fleeting glimpse of these lopsided eyes; one dark as pitch, one as pale and luminescent as the moon behind him.

The first time you saw him at the window, you screamed and prayed to a God you no longer believe in. Now, he is the closest thing to a God that you worship.

“Marilyn.” His name tastes like silk sheets and poisoned wine every time you utter it. “Come inside.”

His leap off the windowsill is graceful, back arching like a cat’s as he springs into the room. You no longer feel the chill in the air, the ice of the fog at your feet. An indulgent inhale of the sweet perfume he seems to carry on his skin smooths away anything that may have bothered you.

At his full height, he looms over you. You have to tilt your head just to look him in those glorious, terrifying eyes.

“Oh, _Marilyn_.” Once he is inside, a blanket of silence seems to surround the two of you; you no longer have to fret about lowering your voice, for fear someone may hear you. It rushes from you like a steam train at full speed, wrought with emotion only his presence can elicit. “I‘ve missed you _dreadfully_. Each day that passes, I fear that you have been found by one of...”

The words stick in your throat, a jagged stone. You hate to even speak the name of such devils, as though it will summon their presence in an angry mob here. As though they will flock to your window, apt to corner and torture the only thing in this world that gives you some shred of genuine feeling.

But he is not afraid of them, and so he says the dreadful word for you.  
“ _Hunters_?” His voice, a collision of the softest velvet and the coarsest gravel, twists with disdain. “Don’t be so idiotic. You know that they are no match for me. _Unless_...” he hesitates, arches his smooth, hairless browbone. “Unless you underestimate me?”

The harshness in his words have you swiftly correcting yourself, with no shortage of chagrin.  
“Of course not, Marilyn.”  
“Good girl.” From angered to a smooth purr; he stretches his slender arms, an invitation to you. “Come here. I’ve missed you, also.”  
You accept it eagerly, and ensnared in his arms you know you should be quaking in fear. But he’s comfortingly cold, soft and hard all at once, and your body moulds perfectly against his rib cage. You feel safer in the arms of a monster than you do anywhere else.

“I only worry because I care so much,” You murmur into the silk of his waistcoat. His clothing is always elegant, crafted from luxurious fabrics and never any shade but black as the night he appears from.  
“I understand. But you do not need to worry about me, little girl.” His lips brush the top of your head with an affirming kiss; at the use of your nickname you wriggle in pleasure, like a contented kitten. Being in his company fills you with a light that no one else could ever achieve; not your family, not your closest friends. Not even the man you are betrothed to on the wishes of your parents, someone you are supposed to love but whose every touch and chaste kiss leaves your stomach curdling like milk left too long in the sun.

No, the only one who truly makes you happy is _him_. This creature who arrives on the night and disappears back into it before the sun’s rays can begin to break. A man who is not really a man, older than your grandfather and feared by generations, condemned to hell by all simply for existing as he is.  
“I wish we never had to be apart,” You dare to voice, then feel a flush of embarrassment at how pathetically besotted you are. But he chuckles at this, a husky sound that reverberates through his torso.

“In time, little girl. In time.”  
He has made you a promise, after all. By day you may be betrothed to an uninteresting boy through a family agreement and a gaudy ring, but by night you have a different arrangement altogether. Not bound by superficial artefacts or mere words- this contract is in your blood. He feeds from you, you feed from him; his blood already dilutes what is in your veins. Little by little he has treated you to it, sporadically because it burns like a potent toxin and leaves you fatigued and cold for days afterwards. But once you have enough of him inside, once he knows you are strong enough to take it all, then he will drain the last of your human blood and you will turn, be his for all eternity. This is a pact you made a year into his nightly visits, when what began as mere seduction on his part for the purpose of a feed evolved to something more and you tasted his blood for the first time.  
  
You believe that he intends to keep his vow- you know he feeds from others, still, and you are not so naive as to ignore what that means. In order to feed, he must seduce them; though you have only been touched by him, Marilyn has touched many others. But you believe him when he says you are the one he loves, you are the one he intends for his mate. And if this in itself is naïveté on your part, then it means he will most likely kill you and you will not have to live with the heartbreak.  
  
“I hate this world.” You pull back from him slightly, a fit of frustration overtaking you. It is the truth- the days stretch endlessly, and you have begun to stare at the sun with a sickening resentment because it is what keeps you from seeing Marilyn. Recently you find yourself despising everything that ties you to the world of the living; you crave death, an end to this life, because what comes after could be an eternity of bliss or a foul betrayal, but either seems preferable to staying here.

“I hate the daytime. I hate the people who surround me, who I have to speak to and pretend to take interest in their lives. I _loathe_ the man my family has planned for me to marry. I want to leave it all, I want nothing more than to be with you-”

Your words are silenced when a cold, spidery finger presses down over your lips. Manson’s slender face has hardened once more, it’s tight expression just visible in the dim glow from outside.

“ _Don’t_ be impatient.” Though he never raises his voice, the harsh undercurrent is enough to silence you at once. “I understand that you hate all of this. You know that I fucking loathe it myself, as well. But I have told you several times that we can _not_ rush this process.”

And he has reminded you of this fact numerous times, after all. If he were to try and turn you too soon, it could end disastrously; your body would not yet be accustomed enough to the blood of his kind to handle a full conversion, and it would destroy you.

But there is a petulant, bratty side to you- and that side craves instant gratification. It is the part of you that lies awake when he is not here, conjuring an image of him in your mind’s eye whilst your hand roams the humid spot between your thighs.  
  
But just as the indulging in fantasy is never as satisfying as waiting for the reality, you know that to attempt to rush this process will never truly work. He has turned others before, after all; not ladies, _this_ he swears, but lesser males, members of his entourage. And he has perfected the art of stripping others from their humanity, replacing it with something stronger, something predatory. But with perfection comes sacrifice, and he has regaled you with the harsh truth: if one is reckless, if one tries to turn s human too soon, their system is not able to handle it and instead it poisons them, in a horrific manner. It takes the right dilution, a precise ratio of his kind’s blood in your veins for the change to work.  
  
You feel scolded, immature for pressing this matter. He knows what he is doing and you should not question it; it is merely those trite insecurities that get in the way, whispering that the only reason he has yet to turn you is because he doesn’t truly want to spend eternity with you.  
  
Except that cannot be real. He has spent countless nights by your side, after all- and not always merely feeding, or indulging in pleasures of the flesh. Sometimes, he crawls through your window dishevelled, someone else's blood crusted around his mouth, and says nothing- only collapses onto your sheets beside you, keeping you close until the sunrise threatens. Sometimes, he even whispers startlingly affectionate admissions to you, a vulnerable side that rarely makes an appearance. Moments like these are what confirm to you that he does, truly, love you.  
  
"I'm sorry, Marilyn." You gnaw on your lip, guilty; your teeth pierce it, draw a bead of blood to the surface. His inhale of longing is as raspy as dried leaves and he sweeps the pale tip of one finger across your mouth, bringing it to his own. In the darkness, you catch it glisten for a a spell before his tongue sweeps it away.  
  
"Delicious?" You venture, but the way his eyes roll back into his skull and the guttural moan are answer enough; it's a compliment like no other, to have your blood- the very essence of you- held with such reverence.  
  
"Oh, baby girl, it is fucking _incredible_." He squeezes you closer, a hairline fracture away from crushing your ribcage into dust with his embrace. The risk of it in would frighten an ordinary person- but you have never been one of those. The tenuous line you walk every second you spend with him only makes each moment more intimate. He lurches forward, lips grazing your earlobe.  
  
"I want you so badly, now. I have been craving you... your body, your _blood_. " Each syllable razes your insides to ash, over and over. He is teasing you now- he loves to do so, to torture you with words until you are undone and desperate. "I have been picturing the moment when I would see you again... when I would taste you. When I would strip your clothes away..."  
  
Your hands curl around the velvet of his coat, tugging at it eagerly. He is not the only one, after all, with a craving that has gone unsatisfied for too long.   
"Don't tease me, Marilyn, please... I want you..."  
  
His hands branch out, no longer holding you still but exploring every crevasse as though this is the first time he has touched you. Deft fingers crawl down the back of your silken nightgown, hitching it, slipping underneath. To feel his skin against the small of your back has you gasping, curling closer to him.  
  
"What _is_ all of this? You know I hate you hiding any part of your body from me." His voice takes on a fiercer, darker tone; the fabric shreds swiftly under his touch, and he flings it away. With the window open and the winter night still pouring in freely, you know that logically you should be shivering by now. But logic seems to dissolve into thin air whenever he is around; if anything, you feel almost too warm. Though it could easily be the heat inside you, radiating outwards; it doesn't help that Marilyn is now appraising your naked form, with a throaty growl of satisfaction.  
  
"This is _all_ mine." It's not a question, nor is it something you would dream of disputing. He is correct; it is all his. And if you have your way, and he has his, then no one but him will ever gaze on it like this. " _You_ are all mine." His hands are tourniquets on your forearms, choking away all circulation. "Tell me you're mine, little one. _Tell me_."  
  
White hot coal and arctic frostbite burn respectively in each of his eyes. He does not bother to be gentle any more as he shoves you down onto the bed, knocking the air from your lungs. "I'm yours, Marilyn."  
  
Apparently unsatisfied, he clenches his hands tighter around your arms- it's painful, and you revel in that fact.  
  
"Are you? _Are_ you mine, little girl? Will you give yourself to me?" Each time, it is the same creed, recited with the same desperate fury. "Will you feed yourself to me when I ask? Will you spread yourself for me when I ask?"  
And each time, you give him the same answer; loyally, lovingly, _truthfully_.  
" _Yes_ , Marilyn. I will give myself to you. I will do _anything_ you ask."  
No matter how many times the two of you repeat these lines, the weight of them never fades. It feels ritualistic, something that must be completed before the deed takes place.   
"Good girl. You're _so_ fucking good."   
The kiss he pulls you into is unrefined and aggressive. He claws at your hair, your back, the flesh of your thighs; his lips are relentless and smash against your face repeatedly. You can feel the sharp edges of his teeth graze teasingly along your lip, and a moan erupts from your throat involuntarily.   
  
His legs slip between yours, splaying them apart, and when he grinds his hips against you it's another stitch pulled, another part of you unravelled and undone. You tug harder at the fabric of his clothing, wishing you had the strength to tear it as he had yours; suddenly, any barrier between your skin and his is hideous, and must be removed. He ignores the hint, pushing your hands away, and you burst out in a cry of frustration.  
  
"I... I want... God, _please_ , Marilyn..." You need to see him, _feel_ him in his entirety. He chuckles callously, shaking his head.  
  
"You're always so greedy, aren't you? Greed is a _deadly_ sin." A pause, his pale features cocking into a triumphant smirk. "I can't say I'm against that. Sinners _are_ always much more fun, after all."  
  
As if to reward your lack of Christian virtue, he shifts back and is gracious enough to allow you to undress him. You take great satisfaction in dispatching each article of clothing to the floor, in a clumsy haste; his jacket, his waistcoat. The buttons of his shirt are small and slow your fingers but he assists you, his digits moving faster than you can.  
  
Perhaps your eyes have adjusted better to the darkness, now- or perhaps he merely emits the faintest luminescence. Whatever the case, the darkness does not stop you from being able to drink in every perfectly distorted feature of his torso; the ragged landscape of scars that cross and arch over otherwise smooth skin, belying centuries of fights for dominance, being the hunter and being the hunted, all that remain of attempts to cut short his endless lifespan. And some you know he has inflicted himself, out of his own need to torture and destroy whatever he can get his hands- and teeth- on. He has more scars than you could ever hope to count; it's frightful, and it's magnificent. It never fails to disappoint.  
  
“You are so thin,” you note, running a fingertip over the sharp ridges of his ribcage; his bones seem dangerously close to piercing through the skin, a sign that he is hungry. Though he is always slender, the flesh over his skeleton waxes and wanes along with his mealtimes. “How long has it been since you fed, Marilyn?”  
  
His lips twist into a smirk, a slash of red across his ghostly cheeks.  
“Since I last saw you."  
“That was six days ago.” This knowledge makes you frown; he should be feeding every two days, or daily if he can. While the thought of him feeding on anyone but you is a knife in your gut, worse is the thought that he has been starving himself. But Marilyn merely laughs, pulls you close once more against those too prominent bones.  
  
“I have no interest in feeding from others any more. They are all so fucking boring- they've started to all taste the same. Bland and unappealing. No one tastes as good as _you_ , little girl. _You_ are the only one I want to touch.”  
The macabre sentiment is more romantic than anything penned in the pages of poetry books. It only exacerbates how much you want to succumb, to throw aside any foreplay that stalls the main event.  
  
“Then touch me.”  
  
Marilyn’s smile is crooked, his lips pulling backwards to bare the gleam of his teeth. They appear deceptively ordinary, but you know what they- and he- are capable of.  
“Don’t worry, little girl. I fully intend to.”  
  
Your breath stutters like a faulty engine as he pins you against the sheets, the gleam of his teeth now growing and elongating. One hand’s chokehold on your throat keeps you from moving too much, the other works to remove the last items of his clothing. You want to tilt your head so that you can fully take him in, but any movement is hindered by his grip.   
  
With a feline growl working its way from somewhere in his throat, Marilyn shoves your head to the side to expose the column of your throat. His hair sweeps across your face as he descends, burying his mouth in the crook of your neck and-  
The seams of your skin are pierced with a resounding crack. Your scream is not one of pain- though there is plenty of that, certainly- but of sheer elation as he feeds. With your face pressed suffocatingly into the sheets of your bed, you can see very little, but you _feel_ enough to make up for that. The way his teeth sink through layers of skin, then tissue, tantalisingly close to the _bone_.   
  
Tongue replaces teeth, probing the wound and stretching it further open. Your skin strains, tears; blood flushes down your neck in hot rivulets. It's sticky and decadent, gathering in the dip of your collarbone. Marilyn sucks like a hungry infant for a period of time that could be a quarter of a second, or an ice age.   
And of _course_ , it is excruciating; Marilyn is always one to play with his food, and thus he toys with the wound as he feeds. Exploring it with his tongue, prodding it with the tip of one finger. You let out a shocked intake of breath as he slips two fingers into the bite wound, chafing against raw nerves and bared flesh- and Good God, it’s _so fucking painful_ , you cry out but he knows well enough that with the pain comes the heat of arousal, as sticky and warm as the blood still spilling down your collar.   
  
_Nothing_ is more sensual to you than the pain that Marilyn inflicts. It cuts through the numbness that the loss of blood might otherwise cause, and it cuts straight through your body from your neck to the endlessly greedy mouth tucked between your thighs.  
  
And he knows this, and so he inflicts more of it. Pulling his head back, his face his painted with your blood; it is smeared crudely around his lips and cheeks, congealing in strands of his hair. The smell of it burns, rusted metal and crushed clay. Your breath is uneven, body trembling as you suck in desperate gulps of air. But despite the haze that the pain and spilled blood is starting to create around the edges of your brain, you know that no matter what, you want-  
“ _More_.”  
  
“Fucking greedy.” Marilyn purrs, but his grin is a gory work of art and he eagerly obliges. He matches the bite wound with one on the other side of your neck- this time being more playful with his teeth, gnawing like an animal around a piece of meat.   
  
You let out a shrill, involuntary scream as he clamps his jaw shut and pulls, a chunk of flesh coming away. It is dizzying, to see your own skin and tissue between his teeth; watch as he chews on it like a child might a biscuit. The deep wounds he has inflicted on either side of your neck throb like exposed, beating hearts; they continue to spill blood down either side, staining your sheets, staining your _skin_. They will have heal by morning, not even leaving a scar; Marilyn does this to wipe any evidence of his visit. And yet, it disappoints you in part. When he feeds, all of it- the horrific, white hot pain, the blood’s steady crawl down your body, the _lust_ it evokes- is all so real. You wish you could wear scars as reminders, twisted and mutilated skin on your neck to serve as a trophy for what you willingly endured.   
  
“Nothing is more beautiful than when you _bleed_ for me.” Marilyn whispers, splaying his fingers over the swell of your breasts, painting them with your own blood. “Your blood is mine, little girl. Mine to play with whenever I like.”  
  
 _Always_ , you think, but your lips can only form a garbled moan, hips twitching and arching upwards. Marilyn takes his sweet time, though- cleaning up the last scraps of his meal. Licking his plate clean. He sweeps his tongue in delicate motions down the trails of blood, runs it over your breasts one at a time so your nipples harden under his touch and the slick of blood it brings. The flow of blood is still steady, giving him more lubricant to work with, to spread out across your skin.   
  
You dare to raise your hands, though they are shaky and your fingers fizz with the threat of numbness, always the first to lose their nerve at the loss of blood. You force them to focus enough to comb through his hair, tugging a handful of it between your fingers. Marilyn lets out a pleasurable snarl against the divot just below your breasts, flicking his tongue in aggressive response.  
  
When he reaches your navel, he bites down again. A task impossible for any human is a natural move for him, and he takes another chunk of skin; this time your scream is silenced by the metallic ringing that circles in your ears. Lifting your head is a draining exertion but you do it anyway, a morbid wish to see the carnage. It does not disappoint; the chunk he has taken from the soft flesh of your stomach gapes in the near-perfect shape of his teeth, ragged edges spilling your blood like a mouth of its own. You spread your legs, allow the blood to envelop the sweetness between them. The heat of it pulls your mind into sharp focus, dragging you away from the haze your pain had created.   
You untangle a hand from Marilyn’s hair, twisting it under his torso in an attempt to reach the source of the burning- it’s an unconscious move, anything to alleviate some of the ache. But Marilyn’s hand snatched yours, crushing your wrist so hard it smarts and splinters.  
  
“Don’t you fucking dare.” He lifts his eyes to yours, more animalistic than they have been all night. The shiver of fear this brings is delicious, and more than welcome. “Don’t you _dare_ , little girl. You are not to touch yourself. Only I am going to touch you tonight.”  
  
You whisper your assent, the words a pile of nonsensical mush on your tongue. Nausea from the pain rises at the back of your throat, but is quickly quelled when Marilyn returns his tongue to your wound. He traces the exposed edges with rough, deliberate movements and you squirm and whimper with each one, knotting your fingers in the bedsheets to stop them from breaking their promise and returning to your crotch.   
  
Your clitoris pulses with every movement of Marilyn’s tongue, as though calling out for its turn.  
When his tongue finally drives between your legs, you howl into the darkness of your bedroom with a sound so rough that your throat sears with the effort.  
His blood-clumped hair brushes against the skin of your thighs, and his tongue washes blood over and inside you. Every stroke, every circle is perfect; one hand returns to the hole he chewed below your navel, a featherlight touch as he runs his fingers over it but the area is so sensitive it feels like the blade of a knife.  
  
You’re grateful that whatever glamours he possesses stop the others in this house from hearing your cries. Otherwise they would surely come running, with the sounds you are making beyond your own control. His lovingly inflicted wounds spike with agony that refuses to recede, and he cruelly teases you with his tongue and his lips as they suck at your clitoris, slip inside you, but never allow you to get close _enough_.  
  
“ _Marilyn_.” Marilyn, Marilyn; his distinct name is probably the only thing you can articulate. He says nothing at all, mouth otherwise engaged in ensuring that the waves of heat ebb higher...  
  
And as you’re so close, as the threat of release builds, he pulls his tongue away.   
  
“Not yet, little girl.” He hisses, shifting his weight upwards, pushing down on top of you. His hips meet yours, grind down; you feel the head of his cock tease your already swollen clit and tense, anticipation ripping through you.  
  
His cock is thick, large enough that when he shoves himself into you in one swift motion, it’s without a doubt the most intense pain he has inflicted on you. You feel apt to crack right down the centre like weathered stone, and he presses down on your spine, pushes roughly against your pelvis.  
  
Your answering scream is drowned out by his lips, choking any sound away in a kiss. He tastes of blood, _your_ blood, and the kiss is gentle and thoughtful. It’s a twisted, amusing contrast to how aggressively he is treating your lower half- one hand splayed across your torso to keep it from flailing, the pad of his thumb pushing roughly and intentionally into the still open wound. And his thrusts are harsh and angry, their own kind of sadistic torture. He pushes himself in so deep it feels he could pierce and penetrate your organs, split them open as well. The blood is drying in places, no longer a lubricant but a sticky hindrance that chafes and tugs. You scream into his mouth again, and in response he presses down even harder into the wound, digging his thumb back and forth in time with the thrusts of his cock, both opening you up even more.  
  
When he bites down on your lip, tooth puncturing it, the final spurt of pain is what has you stumbling over the edge. You come with a loud, strangled noise; your knuckles ache from how hard you cling to the sodden sheets, your back arches then slams back against the bed. The intensity of it entwined pleasure and pain feels quite literally blinding, your vision blurring and washing out with the tears that glaze your eyes.  
  
Marilyn comes with marginally less fanfare, but the lingering groan he makes as he thrusts into you one last time is still enough to raise goose flesh on every exposed part of your skin. His come is the briefest flush of mucilage, warmer than even the blood still congealing inside your cunt. And then he pulls himself out, growing flaccid but still taut enough that it grazes and pulls, hypersensitive as you are. You have no voice left to cry out; your mouth merely parts in a silent exhale.   
  
Marilyn settles himself beside you and the two of you lie bloody, still, while you wait to replenish.  
“I love you.” Your voice is barely perceptible. This is no news to Marilyn; you have spilled the sentiment a handful of times before. But it is the truth, vulnerable as it makes you, and you can not suppress it.   
Marilyn is silent as a tomb, and anxiety begins to gnaw in your stomach that you failed some kind of unknown test, unknowingly placed too much pressure on him. Emotions come differently to him than they do a human, buried deeper beneath his predatory instincts and a discomfort when they are allowed to surface.   
  
But he leans his head to your ear, and his mouth still festers with your blood as he breathes it back to you.  
The three words are blunt, spoken as casually as a mundane remark on the weather might be. But hearing them returned is anything but mundane; Marilyn is not one to often tell you he loves you and thus each time he does, you cling to the words with a crazed need to bury them deep inside yourself, for fear his love may vanish otherwise.  
  
“Thank you...” you gush weakly, but with a sharp click of his tongue Marilyn silences it, propping himself up to stare imploringly at you.  
“Don’t fucking _thank_ me. It’s the truth.” His words are sharp with frustrated, but beneath the jagged surface is an underlying confirmation that has tears burning your eyes again. One manages to leak from the corner of your eye, despite your attempts to blink them away; Marilyn’s fingertip immediately swipes it away, and he pops it into his mouth with a distinctly playful smirk. It’s charming, a boyish contrast to his imposing figure and has you choking out a laugh that burns your throat.  
  
Your cuts are already sealing themselves, skin stitching over as though it was never lacerated to begin with. The blood is even fading from your sheets, previously soaked to the point of ruin. Before the sun even begins they will be completely clean again; a white lie of their own. This trite craft is for Marilyn’s protection; he can not risk leaving any traces behind. But the side effect is that it leaves you with no reminders, no proof this tryst exists outside your own memories.  
  
“You’ve been so good, little one. So fucking good for me, haven’t you?”   
His voice is softer, riddled with an affection that could undo you completely. Marilyn lifts you into his arms, your body limp as a cloth doll and all energy drained. It is an excruciating struggle just to lift your head and look him in the eyes as you beg for what will bring you back to life, a meal of your own.  
  
“Marilyn... please, _please_...”  
  
He hushes you gently, his features fuller with the softness in his face that only appears when he is well fed. Within a few days, it will melt away once more, and he will be back to flesh stretched over bone.   
“Of course, my little girl. You’ve done _so_ well tonight... you always do. You definitely deserve it.”  
  
He takes his teeth to his own wrist, piercing the skin in an elegant slice while you writhe and keen with that deep primal hunger of your own. When the black, viscous substance begins to seep over his hands you let out a strained cry of longing and he pacifies you, sparing you any further effort and pressing it to your lips.  
  
You lap at his blood like a cat would, catching every heavy drip on your tongue. It tastes like cinders from a dying fire, like the sharp burn of strong alcohol and flecks of midwinter snow. Nothing could ever compare to this taste, as it sears down your throat and into your veins. You can feel it working trough every cell, asserting dominance over your lingering human blood. There cannot be all that much left, until you are ready for him to drain the last residue of your humanity.  
It revitalises you now, in the darkness; you feel stronger and more energetic than you have in days. But you know the side effects will rise as the sun does and in its light you will be bedridden and fatigued, the daytime‘s adverse effect on his blood affecting it where it mingles with your own. A small price to pay, of course, for the sweetest tasting liquor.  
  
Marilyn lets you feed for longer than you can recall ever being allowed. You suck at his wrist gleefully, revelling in this opportunity to binge, letting your mouth pool with it. When he finally withdraws you have grown spoiled; you let out a whine of protest, reaching for his wrist once more. But his skin is already sealing itself back up, and he clicks his tongue at your greed.  
“Ah, _ah_. That’s all for tonight, little girl.”  
  
The disappointment is tangible; you fight back a surprisingly powerful urge to spit at him in response to this slight. That is the power of undead blood; the more you consume, the more you desire. You will never truly be satiated.  
Marilyn senses your disappointment and cups your chin, with fingers just a shade less bony than before. He tips your chin so that your eyes are aligned with his own once more, and you are able to read what spills from his gaze. He is not one for outwardly expressing it, but you have become more attuned to sensing when he is vulnerable. You can see now, the smallest slice of it peering through.  
  
“I can’t give you more, because I have to leave. The sun is going to rise, soon.”  
  
When you’re with him, time does not exist. But it suddenly feels as though he only just arrived, and the great sadness of being without Marilyn settles on your shoulders once again, preempting his departure. Your sigh is small, and you feel terribly insignificant.  
  
“Promise me you will return soon,” you plead with him, and he seals this promise with an affirming kiss. For what he is, for the blood caking around his mouth, the kiss is so painfully _sweet_ that you feel the salted sting of tears.  
“Very soon.” The pause is heavy; you can see his eyes flicking back and forth as he considers his next words- and when he speaks again his voice is forceful, decisive.  
  
“You have almost enough of my blood inside you. I think next time, you will be ready to turn. _If_ that is still what you want.”  
  
The emotion that this proposal floods you with is too powerful, nuanced, to put a name to. You had waited for this, prayed to any dark force that may have been listening, dreamed about it for so long. That it will be reality soon enough is terrifying and exhilarating; tears track their way down your cheeks as you suck in an overwhelmed breath.  
“That is _all_ I want.”  
  
To never have to say goodbye to him when the sun rises; to never walk through the bland, unimportant life you lead the moment he slips from the door. To live eternally with this absurd, wondrous devil. Worth selling your soul for, if you have much of one left anyway.  
How could there be any question of otherwise?   
  
“I’m glad. It would have been fucking disappointing, otherwise.” His grin is devilish, and eager. “Well, until that big event...”  
  
His parting kiss is a swan song, as it always is; already so hungry for more. You cling to him and return the affections with desperation. No period of time will ever be long enough to quell what you need, but you're damned if you won't take as much as you can in the few hours you get with him anyway.

By the time the first slivers of wretched, foul sunlight start to creep across your floor he is long gone. You lie naked and spent, a splash more of his blood in your system than before, and trace the smooth unaffected skin here hours ago he had torn gaping holes, the clean white sheets that had been drenched beyond salvation in your own blood.

The light outside is bright, cheerful and _revolting_. With a disparaging glance through the window, you stumble towards it and yank the curtains across in any attempt to drown it out. You're certainly not going to miss the sun, once you give the last piece of yourself to Marilyn; you _despise_ daytime.


End file.
